


Hands

by fab_fan



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: F/F, Introspection, Light Angst, Not Happy, thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:20:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25622785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fab_fan/pseuds/fab_fan
Summary: Raelle lifted her left hand, letting it float above her face, blotting out the moon and offering her a glimpse of a wish. A hope. A dream. Where her palm was bare save for the crinkled creases cut into it, lines etched by the hand of the goddess herself before she was even born that theoretically spoke of love and life and death. Of success and hope. Futures and pasts and everything in between.
Relationships: Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Comments: 14
Kudos: 51





	Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during Episode 6.

The grass tickled the backs of her legs, her trousers shucked and rolled up till the cuffs dug into the hollow of her knees and the cool green stalks cradled her calves, the dark brown mud from the rainstorm clinging to her skin and painting the tanned flesh with discolored streaks that swiped across like uneven lines created by unseen paintbrushes.

The stars overhead felt like they were millions of miles away, so small yet so powerful. Beyond her reach no matter how far she stretched. Her fingers desperately wanted to grasp them, hold them tight. Bring them down to earth and have something tangible to fill the gaps in her hands. Take the place of the emptiness in her palms and the tiny spaces between her fingers where another’s once curled.

Raelle lifted her left hand, letting it float above her face, blotting out the moon and offering her a glimpse of a wish. A hope. A dream. Where her palm was bare save for the crinkled creases cut into it, lines etched by the hand of the goddess herself before she was even born that theoretically spoke of love and life and death. Of success and hope. Futures and pasts and everything in between.

Her lips pursed, top and bottom smashing together as she stretched out her arm and then bent it back again at the elbow, fully exposing the blank empty flesh to her lonely blue eyes. Slowly, so damn slow it ached, the finger of her right hand unfurled and pressed against the pliable skin. Carefully, hypnotically, the tip traced a _S_. Simple. Solid. An invisible carving that left no mark but she felt so deeply it was as if a dull blade cut and dug until she bled and scarred. 

Right where Scylla’s mark was meant to be.

Scylla’s hello.

Scylla.

Azure eyes stung with tears, and she blinked them back harshly with a shuddering breath that rattled her lungs like the winds of a hurricane against open weakened wood window panes.

Scylla’s gift. Her present. The marking was meant to let Raelle know Scylla was hers, to let her know Scylla was thinking about her.

The way it felt to hear that. To see it. For the words to be unspoken yet oh so clear if only Raelle would allow herself to listen. 

She always listened.

To see past her own doubts and fears that crept in when she wasn’t looking. That whispered in the back of her mind about secrets and Porter and time and again where Scylla would change the subject or refuse to tell her anything about herself, instead distracting her with a kiss and a smile.

Fears and doubts that she fought back against, conquered on a daily basis because she wanted Scylla. Needed Scylla. Knew that Scylla wasn’t bad. Chose to believe in her because she could _see her._ See that she was worth fighting for. 

Could see only a future with her in it.

The _S_ might have meant Scylla was thinking of her as much as Raelle was thinking of Scylla, but it was more than that.

It meant Raelle was Scylla’s. 

She always had been. Since the moment they met. The roar of the tornadoes and the smirk of a beautiful girl with wavy hair and hauntingly beseeching blue eyes working together in such a way that Raelle’s soul recognized that this was something different. Something special. Something to pay attention to and work for and have. She wasn't ashamed of it. Wasn't ashamed to admit she belonged to another. That she belonged to Scylla.

Her chin began to tremble, and she silently yelled at herself. Quashed whatever feelings bubbled up and choked her until she couldn’t breathe.

They said Scylla was gone.

Swept away by the storm.

Dead.

They were wrong.

She couldn’t be dead.

How could someone so strong, so smart, so damn brave be gone?

How could the person Raelle was meant for be no more?

She would have known. Felt something. Anything. Just like she felt that first day, with the sun sparkling in hidden depths and light shining out of darkness.

Her fingers curved down, bending into a fist so tight her tendons quaked and muscles screamed. 

How many times had she held Scylla’s hand? How many times had her lover’s palm slid carefully against hers? Deft fingers, nimble and sprightly, weaved in between her own? This fist...how often had it been unfurled by gentleness? The anger and frustration soothed away with the swipe of a thumb across a knuckle or the tip of a forefinger tracing the outline of a path only seen by the girl with the pretty mouth and understanding sigh?

A thousand? 

Ten thousand?

A million?

How many times had this hand reached for Scylla? Tangled in her hair? Touched her face and neck and trickled down until it dipped into the hills and valleys of a landscape only her eyes would see, meant only for her mouth and tongue to travel?

These hands that were supposed to heal. To take away others' pain.

These hands that wanted so badly to hold Scylla and protect her from the demons that threatened to take away whatever little joy they were able to find in this world.

Hands that failed. Protected everyone else except the one they longed for most.

What was their last touch? The brush of her hand, this hand, across Scylla’s shoulders as the balloons came? A blind assurance as Raelle rushed off to help the guests to safety? A phantom promise to be back that never manifested into reality because there was no one to come back to? A lie?

Had her last touch been a lie?

Before that, Scylla was in her arms. They danced. Hands clasped together and arms wrapped around each other. The smell of flowers and freedom, if only for a moment, in the air. 

The music drowned out by whispered words that Raelle heard in her heart because she felt the same in her soul.

Why hadn’t she said them back?

Why hadn’t she told Scylla she loved her too? Always had. Loved her since she knew her name. Loved her before she even knew she could love someone like this.

Why hadn’t she done more?

Why had these hands not held on tight, kept Scylla close? Stayed hand in hand with her?

She turned her hand to and fro, back and forth, one side and the other. A stray speck of mud smudged the dampness, tiny dots of water glistening in the shadowy grey of nature’s flashlight. Nails short. Skin tanned. Blemished from years of hard work and strain.

This was her strength. What allowed her to do Work. Whipped out a scourge and held a scry. 

What let her fix. 

This was what let her feel and cherish the one she loved. Let the one she loved feel her love and adoration.

 _This_ was completely useless.

She was completely useless.

These hands were meant to lift up, to bring life, to save, to cherish, to hold.

Instead, they were empty, ghosts unable to do anything except stare back at her.

Nothing to them except the strange white substance clinging to her right forefinger.

A final reminder of how her touch, her hands, only led to mistakes and lies.

They couldn't hold on to her mom. Couldn't embrace her dad. Couldn't take care of her Unit.

Couldn't love Scylla.

Hands were said to be her greatest strength, yet turned out to be her downfall.


End file.
